


Narrative Tension

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Good Books, Bad Movies [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, I swear, KC BBQ, Kissing, M/M, Mental Illness, New Year's Eve, Pining, Unsafe driving, Writer's Block, but these two gotta talk instead of fuck for once, cameo appearance, declarations, everybody knows the sides are the best part of Thanksgiving anyway, good people sometimes do terrible things, ill-advised drunkenness, inappropriate self-medication, more real talk, real talk, vegan Friendsgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't react well when he found out Cas had once been married. Now Cas is gone, and Dean's falling apart. </p><p>Turns out there's more to a relationship than just deciding you've got one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Wait, he was _married_ and he never told you?" Charlie made the same face she did after a shot of tequila.

"Apparently," Dean mumbled from between his fingers. He was slumped in his desk chair with his head in his hands; he didn’t even remember driving to the store, his body on numb autopilot.

"Well, but—when? Is it, like, hey baby, my divorce is just final, let’s bone? Or maybe it was a youthful mistake thing? That happens, you know, starter marriage.”

"I don't know,” said Dean. “Because instead of _asking_ like a normal person, I freaked out and yelled at him to get the fuck out, because I'm a fucking idiot."

"Oh, Dean, honey, ouch." Charlie patted him on the shoulder, a bit awkwardly—nurturing was not her strong suit. "Yeah, that was dumb, I’m not gonna lie. But you were caught off guard. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Dean laughed bitterly. "Right, because that comes so naturally to me. I fucked up, Charlie. I fucked up royally and he's gone and that's it, and it's all my fucking fault."

"No, it's not, come on, Dean. Cut yourself some slack, Cas deserves some blame too. For Pete's sake, he thought the best time to tell you was right as he was leaving? Kind of a dick move, if you ask me."

“I hadn’t really thought of it that way? I guess, maybe. But he was being nice, Charlie, inviting me to family Thanksgiving, like I was a real boyfriend and not just a piece of ass. And when I reacted that way—he was so surprised. His jaw just dropped, and he practically tripped over his own feet getting out of the door. Fuck, he didn’t even say anything! I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked _up.”_ Dean bit his lip to keep from crying, bit so hard he tasted blood. “Charlie, what I am gonna do?”

“Oh honey. Oh honey. This is—I don’t know what to tell you. You made a mistake, sure, a big one, but maybe you can fix it? Call him, or no, text him, that’s more neutral and he doesn’t have to answer right away.” She patted him again, letting her hand rest on his back. “Not today, though. Right now I think you should go home, Dean, let yourself be upset.”

“I _can’t,_ you need me here. Someone’s gotta do the ordering while you—shit, is anybody out there waiting on customers?”

“I called Anna as soon as I saw how messed up you were. She’s got things under control, and you know I know how to do the ordering. You’re more important than the store, Dean, we keep telling you.”

"Being home's not going to help, though. Not to gross you out, but—it's a really small apartment, you know, and we kind of...covered a lot of ground."

Charlie made the tequila face again. "Pretend I didn't say 'ew.' All right, if you think it's better to be here, that's what you should do. You should hole up in here, though, fewer memories." Dean shot her a chagrined look, and she sighed. "Here too? Honey, did you two ever, like, have a conversation? You seem to have skipped some important stuff."

"You think I don't know that? We just got into this pattern, he—God, Charlie, he wanted me so much, just all the time, it was awesome. It’s like I’ve been drunk off my ass for the past week and now I’ve got all the hangovers at once.”

"Wish I had advice, boss man, but I really don't. Or, you know, I could say 'don't think about it,' but that's so cheap, right?” She sighed and sat down on the corner of his desk. “I guess my only question is, do you _want_ to fix this, or just let it go? He's gone, so you don't _have_ to see him ever again if you don’t want. Do you really, in your heart of hearts, want Castiel Novak to be your boyfriend, even though it'll take some work and it won't always be fun?"

Dean leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. After a minute of contemplation, he said: "Yeah. Yeah, I really do. I want this, him and me, I want us to be a real thing. And I thought we were, because I told him all about the bipolar shit and he was like 'OK, noted, still in,' but I think that was just sex fog making us think we were forming this profound bond?"

"That's easy to do, Dean. I know I've done it. But it's not—I mean, I could be wrong, but I don't think you guys are doomed? Give it a day for you both to calm down, and try to figure it out while you're not in, like, groping distance." She ruffled his hair softly. "You'll be OK, promise. We'll help you out."

There was a soft knock at the door, and Anna's crimson head poked in. "Uh, Charlie, UPS is here. You wanna sign for it?"

She nodded, flicked her gaze to Dean. "Will you be OK by yourself back here? You want Anna to take a shift? If you want to, Anna," she added.

"Of course," said Anna. After Charlie left the office, she took up the same spot, perched on Dean's messy desk, and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it more?"

"Ugh, no," Dean groaned. "I think I'd like to move on to the abject wallowing."

"OK." She tapped her foot on the legs of his chair. "Uh, do you want a hug?"

Dean looked at her. It was usually easy to forget they'd had sex once upon a time; that long ago, her hair had been dark blue, he'd been obsessed with Vonnegut. They'd been kids, and they'd been a lousy match, but she'd still tried to carry him through the crash of his first major depression, holding him while he shook with sobs, her face always so full of compassion, beatific as an angel.

She was making the same face now, and he couldn't bear it. Because he'd fucked them up, lashed out one too many times for her to deal with, and now it was fifteen fucking years later and he'd done it again. He hadn't changed at all.

So he took the comfort she used to offer, nodded and leaned into her, warm and soft, pushing away thoughts of Cas's embrace, the lean strength of it. "It's OK," she murmured, as he started to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Cas was furious. Too furious to drive, really, his knuckles white on the wheel, but the urge to run, to put some distance between him and this beautiful, broken, maddening man, spurred him on. He took the exit onto 36 too fast, the Saab's tires letting out an unhappy screech, and he realized he was definitely going to get a ticket if he didn't calm down. Easing off the accelerator, he tried to breathe deeply, tried to think logically.

Unfortunately, it was Dean he was thinking about, and in just a few weeks he'd destroyed Cas's ability to be rational with his damn stupid face and his damn stupid body and the damn stupid blissful noises he made when Cas touched him, that made him never want to stop. How dare he. How dare he reject that, the endless kindness and affection he'd been showered with, the...god fucking dammit all to Hell, the _love._ He'd fallen so fast, so hard, head over fucking heels.

And what did he get for it? Rank ingratitude. Over _Daphne,_ for God's sake. If he _knew,_ if he'd just given him a chance to explain...

But he hadn’t. He’d thrown him out. Like he’d said he was still married. Cas had been too stunned to respond, too taken aback to defend himself.

He’d just fled.

And now he was stuck alone in his car for six hours, uselessly fuming, when what he really needed was someone to vent to, someone to talk him down. And the horrible truth was that he didn't _have_ anybody like that in his life. He saw Daphne at holidays now, but their relationship was still too strange to be close; Gabe was a good guy, but he had the habit of turning everything into a joke, whether it was too soon or not. And Cas had never had the knack of making friends, one reason he'd chosen a solitary occupation—in fact, the closest he had was his publicist, Meg, and it would be plumbing new depths of unprofessionalism to call her with boy trouble.

He thought with a pang of that night at the Boulevard, the easy rapport he'd fallen into with Dean and his co-workers; how comfortable it was to be with Dean, joking between kisses.

That really was the worst thing: that the person he most wanted to talk to right now was the one most unavailable.

Cas noticed his speedometer cranking over the limit again, creeping up past 80, and took his foot off the pedal—too late. He heard the belch of a siren starting up behind him as a sheriff's cruiser appeared; swearing under his breath, he cut the wheel to the right and pulled onto the shoulder. Exactly what he needed, today of all days.

Rolling down the window, he waited with a scowl on his face as the cop got out of her car and walked up to his with the usual law enforcement mix of confidence and caution. She was tall, in her mid-forties, with cropped hair and a shearling jacket. "Yes, I know how fast I was going," he snapped before she could say anything.

“Well, that’s good, at least you can count,” she said tartly. “Unfortunately, doesn’t seem like you can _read,_ sir, since the limit here’s 65 and you passed a sign to that effect half a mile back.”

He laughed without really meaning to. “No, I know, Officer, I know I was speeding. I’m sorry, it’s been a rough day.”

“Sheriff, not ‘Officer,’” she said. “Livingston County Sheriff. Sorry about your day, but I’ll still need license and registration.” Cas held in a sigh while he rummaged through his glove compartment and wallet and handed them over.

Peering at his license, the sheriff widened her eyes suddenly. “Wait, you’re Castiel Novak? The writer? Are you kidding me?”

"No. What? I mean, yes, that's my real license. It's me."

She studied his face and the unflattering photograph, then nodded. "Blue eyes indeed," she said under her breath. "You're not gonna believe this, but I've got _Celestial Intent_ in my cruiser as we speak. Been reading it between traffic stops. I'm a huge fan of your work, Mr. Novak." She grinned like a kid on Christmas. "I can't believe I got to say that in person! This is so cool!"

Cas grinned back at her, hopeful. "So no ticket?"

"Oh, no, I'm writing you a ticket. You were 15 over, bad day or not. Most I can do is come down a little on the fine, if your record's clear. But...uh...what if I called someone to take over for me and, say, took you to lunch?"

Which was how Cas found himself at a diner in Chillicothe, Missouri, with Sheriff Jody Mills, sipping tarry coffee and telling her about Dean. He didn't mean to, really—obviously it was far too personal a conversation for someone he's just met, even if she had read all his books—but she asked what had ruined his morning, and she had such a kind, open face, and he’d told her everything before he could stop himself.

“So,” she said, stirring creamer into her coffee, “you felt that the right time to mention your previous marriage was as you were leaving town? And you’re angry at _him_ for overreacting?”

“It’s not what he thinks! He should’ve let me explain, it’s just—it’s just not a big deal!”

“Has he ever been married?”

Cas tilted his head in thought. “No, I don’t think so. He would’ve told me—oh.”

“Exactly.” She leveled her spoon at him. “He told you he’s emotionally unstable, he apparently has no self-esteem whatsoever, despite your best efforts to screw some into him—pardon my French—and you blindsided him with the news not only that you have an ex-wife, but that you still see her, and that you consider her family when you don’t even speak to most of your blood relations. You fucked up, Novak.”

Cas slumped against the back of the booth. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“No, of course you hadn’t. If I may be frank? You set yourself up as the good guy, as the one who could grip Dean tight and pull him right out of Hell—but honey, you have to _talk_ to someone to really help them. Sex isn’t the same as intimacy, even if it is the best you ever had. If you really do think you’re in love with him—and I don’t wanna say that couldn’t be, sometimes things happen that fast—that’s not enough on its own. He needs to know you. He has to understand that you have flaws, or he’ll just be worshipping you instead of loving you back, and that’s not going to make anyone happy.” She looked down suddenly and laughed. “Wow, that’s more than I meant to say. Sorry for the lecture, it’s a mom thing.”

“Don’t apologize! For God’s sake, I think it’s what I needed to hear. So you—you think I should call him?”

“Well, if you want a relationship, you’re going to have to talk to him eventually. But I’d let him make the first move, honestly. You have to stop being Mr. Fix-It, give him a chance to make decisions.” She laughed again. “So says a complete stranger. Do with that what you will.”

Cas nodded. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

"Hmm, now where'd that ticket go?" Jody said, throwing her hands up in a burlesque of bafflement.

Cas laughed. "You're using it as a bookmark," he said, pointing.

"No, I don't think so," she said, furrowing her brow and winking. "That doesn't seem like something I'd do."

When the waitress brought the check, Cas snagged the pen and pulled Jody’s book across the table. Flipping it to the title page, he scrawled his initials and wrote, simply, **Thank you for everything.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for Jody's appearance is due entirely to my husband, to whom I was complaining that I couldn't figure out how to make this chapter not just a dude being angry alone in his car. He's brilliant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: if you're at all either already depressed or hovering nearby, you might wanna skip to the first section break (with asterisks). Managed to trigger myself while writing it...HA HA, the things I do for you people. :/

Dean spent the next week on the edge, aching and miserable. Sometimes his illness was like driving a mountain road: the drop-off was right there, he knew it, all he had to do was spin the wheel, and God, there was a part of him that screamed to do so. While the fall was agony, it was also freedom—so easy to just stop caring, to give up the storm of emotion for the momentary blissful rush of nothingness. To rest.

But he didn't. He couldn't. Not for himself: for his store, for his staff. They needed him even if he didn't.

So he woke up every day in his bare bed, stripped of sheets too full of sex and Cas, took the lithium that made his life almost bearable; he let Charlie, Anna, and Kevin put food in front of him, even though it all turned to ash in his mouth; he suffered through the burden of their looks of concern, their relentless kind words.

And he went home every night and washed down an Ambien with bourbon. 

He had no dreams.

As the days passed, and he resisted, the urge to surrender began to dwindle. He still thought of Cas all the time, missed him like a limb, and he almost called him a hundred times. He wasn’t sure what kept him back—pride? Guilt? Anger? but he tried not to look at it too closely. When he felt up to it, he’d either call or he wouldn’t. No need to decide before then.

*******

Dean's brother called from California the evening of Thanksgiving Day.

"Sammy! Hey! How's it going!" He stood up from his position lazing on Charlie's living room floor, stretched, and wandered into the kitchen to lean against the counter, chaotic with bowls and half-scraped pans.

"Not bad, not bad. Full of turkey?"

"Nope, I'm doing Friendsgiving with Charlie and Anna today, so we had vegan lasagna. Which was pretty damn good," Dean admitted. "There was pie, though, and now we're on to the part of the day where we make fun of football, like proper Americans. Hey, how's Jess doing?"

Sam laughed. "Very pregnant and very tired of it. She keeps giving me these death glares, like having a kid was all my idea." A faint _"I heard that!"_ crackled across the background.

"Well, she's doing all the work."

"Hey, I made dinner _and_ did the dishes!"

"That's just common courtesy, dude. You don't get brownie points for being decent, that's the bare minimum."

"OK, OK, fair enough. I’m lucky to have her.” Sam cleared his throat. “So, uh, Dean. Why the hell didn't you tell me you were dating Castiel Novak?"

And it was lucky Dean left his beer in the other room, because he would’ve choked. “What?!? Who the fuck told you that? Wait, no, let me guess, she’s got red hair and a signed pic of Captain Janeway in her bathroom.”

"Wow, really? Bun or bob? I mean, yeah, it was Charlie. She texted me last week, said you guys were, quote, 'stupid in love,' but you had a fight or something? She was worried about you, said you seemed really down."

"Ugh. She's like the little sister I never wanted. We're not—we weren't—it wasn't _dating,_ Sam. And we’re certainly not in love, I don’t know where she got that idea. It was just, you know, he came to the store for a reading, and we hooked up, and then he came to visit me for a little while. Just a—just a casual thing."

"Right. Bullshit. I know you, Dean, you don’t get depressed over a hookup. I’m not getting off the phone until you tell me what happened."

Dean slumped to the floor, thumping his head back against the cupboards. “Jesus, Sammy, come on, have mercy. I’m _fine.”_

“Yeah, when you say you're fine, that's how I know you're not. Not budging. It’ll do you good to talk, it always does.”

It took a few more minutes of wheedling, but eventually Dean groaned in defeat. “Fuck, fine. I’ll warn you, though—minus the sex, there’s not that much to tell.”

“I’d still appreciate you skipping the blow-by—argh, nope, didn’t say that, I mean the _play-by-play.”_

With a sigh, Dean launched into the whole humiliating saga, from Cas's first lingering handshake to his own recent tantrum. "I told him about the thing with Lisa, Sammy. I fucking _cried._ And then I fucked it up, like I always do, and now I haven't heard from him in a week."

"So he'd never mentioned being married at all, and then 'oh, by the way, come to Thanksgiving and meet my ex-wife?' That's...come on, Dean, that's not your fault for being pissed."

"Why does everybody keep saying that? Of course it's my fault. I didn't let him explain! I yelled at him! That’s just so shitty and stupid and…crazy."

"Nope, stop, you are just plain not allowed to call yourself that. Sure, you didn't handle it perfectly, but for Pete's sake, Dean, do you not blame him at all? You told him all of this really private, important stuff, and it seems like he didn't give a lot back. You know you tend to blame yourself for things that aren't your fault. Try to step outside it for a second."

"Look, I have. I know you're right, but I don't _believe_ you're right, you know how that goes. I don't know, think I should call him? I keep going back and forth."

Sam was silent, obviously mulling it over. "Do you want to see him again?"

"Fuck, yes. He's—God, Sam, he's hot and brilliant and he's really goddamn into me and he's kind of fucking perfect. Of course I want to see him again."

"Uh, Dean, he's not perfect. One, nobody is, that's how it works, two, were he somehow a magical exception he would've found a better way to tell you about the ex. If you’re gonna keep believing he’s awesome and you suck, you’re never gonna be happy with him even if you do work things out.”

“Stop being so damn reasonable, Sammy. It’s your most annoying quality.”

Sam laughed. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“So…you don’t think calling him would be a dumbass thing to do? Because I really, really want to.”

“You don’t need my permission, Dean.”

“I’m not asking for permission, I’m just checking to make sure I’m not using insane troll logic. Because of the reasonable thing you have and I don’t when I’m depressed.”

“OK, then, no, I don’t think it would be the end of the world if you called him. But under no circumstances start apologizing for what you did like you’re the only one at fault, OK? Stand your ground, ask him about the ex. It sounds like all you did besides bone was talk about you—make him talk about himself. That’s my advice.”

“Thanks, buddy. You’re a good brother.”

“And so are you. I gotta let you go, though, Jess is waving her plate at me for a refill.”

“Send my love! Promise I’m saving up to come meet my niece when she’s born.”

They said goodbye, and pocketing his phone, Dean headed back into the living room to discover Charlie had drunk the rest of his beer. “Nice hostessing, Bradbury,” he huffed.

“Whatever, you’re not supposed to drink on your meds anyway,” she said. “Now hush, there’s important sportsball happening.”

“Oh right, what’d I miss?”

“Well,” said Anna, sipping her Jack and Coke, “I believe that man-slab in blue is about to run smack dab into that man-slab in white? And score a home run or something.”

“Ah, excellent work, blue man-slab. You win that thing. For the people.”

A few beers later, contraindications be damned, Dean made his way home on Charlie’s borrowed bike, sticking to the sidewalks out of post-football tipsy traffic; back in his empty apartment, he curled up in bed with a book, distracting himself before he passed out.

But he was in the last few chapters of a Megan Abbott noir, and couldn’t stop reading until it was over—then, full of that bereft awe he got when he finished a great novel, he turned his eyes to one of his TBR piles, pondering what to read next. Fifth down was the chunky spine of _Celestial Intent,_ the copy with Cas’s come-on on the title page, and he couldn’t look away, his mouth dry with want.

“I miss you,” he whispered to the book.

And then, in a haze of impulsive nostalgia, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and punched in the same words, hitting “Send” before he could think better of it.

And he waited.


	4. Chapter 4

_It was called The Forest not because it had never been named, but because it had been named so often; native records from as far off as Iothia spoke of dozens of attempted and failed settlements on its peninsula. Before that, folklore, ballads and proverbs referenced the Forest in unmistakable terms: bordered by a mountain range in the east, the ocean to the west, it was hard to reach and, it seemed, even harder to remain. Colonial historians puzzled over this—indeed, the journey was difficult, but the soil was rich, and the easy access to the sea should have meant thriving trade for a port colony. Yet cultures and tribes had tried for millennia to establish such a town with no success, and though the documentation existed, it proved little logical help. Which the students soon learned cramming background in the library._

_“OK, this one’s Rieftan, from 2314 R.Y.: ‘Gone all gone, dead all dead, they lay down and died and the beasts sharpened their teeth on bone.’” Inar winced and rubbed his temples. “That’s from a history textbook, mind you. Why is this whole planet so fond of schmaltzy prose? For Goodness’ sake, colonists die. Look how long it took us to get a foothold here. And I certainly hope no one was sending letters back to Earth blaming monsters.”_

_“No, you tended to blame natives,” came a voice from…_

The cursor blinked, and kept on blinking, no matter how much Cas scowled at it.

This story was not going where it was supposed to. Perhaps (OK, definitely) it'd been misguided to scrap the three non-starters he'd already attempted for the anthology in favor of a nebulous idea about the connection between scientific exploration and colonialism, but still, stalling out barely a thousand words in just wasn't like him. It wasn't even a new world to build, for Heaven's sake—he'd published half a dozen stories that took place in and around the Forest, the character in the middle of speaking was Lett, the pansexual librarian from _Last Leviathan_ —it was all familiar stuff. It should be easy.

But it wasn't.

It's all Dean's fault, he thought sulkily, and then, in a flash of guilt: _no, it's mostly your fault, Castiel, you and your damn savior complex_. His sheriff-ex-machina had hit the nail on the head; he’d been going about this from the beginning like he could fix Dean, that kindness and orgasms were all that was required from him. While those were certainly not unwelcome, they'd never be enough for a real relationship. He still wasn't sure why he was so determined to have one with Dean—it was hardly practical—but he did, and so he needed to put in the work to do so.

If Dean ever called him, that is.

Here it was, the day before Thanksgiving, and not a word. Castiel was hopelessly torn between continuing to follow Jody's suggestion—give Dean space, give him time—and the overwhelming urge to grovel, the nagging idea that as the worse fuckup, he owed it to the wounded party to make the first move. Would apologizing feel to Dean like Cas was trying to push him towards emotions he wasn't necessarily ready for? Or would not reaching out to apologize seem like he persisted in thinking he'd done nothing wrong?

Both options made sense; that was the problem. And waffling back and forth made it impossible to think about anything else…or to write.

He sighed and tabbed over to Twitter.

*******

Three distracted hours later, Cas got a call from Gabe. "What's up, brotimes? Just landed in Chi-town. I'll pick up my rental and get on the road, be there in a couple of hours."

Cas said something affirmative but non-committal, and apparently he wasn't doing as well as he hoped at not sounding miserable, because Gabe didn’t hang up right away. "You OK, kiddo? Because you're not greeting my arrival with the fanfare and confetti it deserves."

"It's a long, stupid story, Gabe. In a nutshell: I met someone, I screwed it up, he hasn't called and I'm upset."

"Awww, pobrecito. Buck up, other fish and all that. You want I should pick up a pint of Ben and Jerry's on the way, drown those feels in fudge?"

Cas sighed and ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Just...don't, all right, Gabe? This is important to me— _he,_ for whatever lunatic reason, is important to me—and I don't want to talk about it at all if you insist on being sarcastic.”

“But sarcasm is my specialty! You’re telling Michelangelo not to paint, Superman not to fly, Joss Whedon not to get cancelled!”

“Nevertheless, I’d appreciate it if you refrained. I would like to hear your thoughts, but give me this one serious thing.”

“All right, fine, for you I’ll take it down a notch.” Gabe paused, then added, “I’m still going to pick up ice cream.”

*******

Gabe picked up ice cream, and Nutter Butters, and a bag of mini Reese’s cups, and a sheet cake that said “Birthday Princess” on it. And a strawberry rhubarb pie, which made Cas’s heart skip a woeful little beat at the memory of Dean’s sucking filling from his sticky fingers. “Sorry,” Gabe shrugged. “I was hungry.”

“That’s why the cookies are half gone, I assume?” Cas divested his brother of his armload of sweets and gave him a tentative hug. “Dinner tomorrow’s going to be mostly dessert at this rate.”

“As it should be, grasshopper, as it should be.” Gabe stopped smirking and put on a solemn face. “Let’s have a drink, and you’ll tell me all about it.”

So they drank, and Cas talked, and Gabe kept his promise and didn't snark—and even better, he refused to offer advice. "I wish I could tell you what to do, little brother, Heaven knows I love ordering you around, but it's your deal, I'm not gonna wade into it. Emotions don't do right and wrong, so there's not one answer."

"I know," Cas said, picking at the label of his beer bottle. "Something needs to happen soon one way or the other, though, because I have a deadline coming up and I can't work like this."

"Rough stuff, champ, sorry. Wanna go on a Wednesday night bender?”

 _“God,_ yes. Let’s find a liquor store and drink it.”

*******

It was, in retrospect, a very bad idea to split a bottle of tequila the night before they were supposed to cook a huge meal. The mere sight of the turkey made Cas want to vomit, and the thought of eating it nearly did; Gabe was slightly better off, but still in no shape to man the kitchen. “All right,” Cas said, closing the fridge, “plan B?”

“Dry toast?” Gabe suggested. He was draped dramatically over the couch nursing a Gatorade.

“Shit, I am the world’s worst host. Poor Daphne.”

“Indeed. By the way, I know I said I wasn’t getting involved, but you know it’s crazytown bananapants to celebrate holidays with someone you divorced last millenium.”

“When I want your opinion, Gabe, I’ll—no, wait, I’ll never want your opinion.”

“Did you just quote Giles at me?”

“He’s a wise man. Honestly, Gabe, it’s the least I can do after how I treated her, and that’s the last we’re saying on the subject.” He checked the time on the microwave—four p.m., Daphne had probably left Davenport by now. “I’m going to call her, see if she minds an all-side Thanksgiving. I think we can manage stuffing between the two of us, and she’s supposed to bring sweet potatoes.”

“And dessert! See, I helped!” 

******

Daphne—who, luckily, didn’t mind at all—suggested they donate the turkey to a shelter; Gabe was running it over and Cas was chopping celery when she knocked on the door twenty minutes later.

"Hi, Castiel," she said, kissing his cheek and handing him the sweet potatoes. "So you guys tore it up last night, huh? Classic Novak."

"Maybe in high school. I haven't been that drunk in a long time, and I feel like an idiot. Sorry we bailed on the actual main dish."

"You know, I've never liked turkey anyway? Always dry and disappointing." She followed him into the kitchen, where he offered her a glass of water and a seat. "Thanks, Castiel. How are you?"

"Besides hungover? Uhm, I'm going to say 'not bad' because the real answer's too long a story and I'm not sure you'd want to hear it. It's...romantic."

"Ah." Something in her eyes closed off for a minute, but she shook it off. "I'll pass. But otherwise? Work going OK?"

“More or less. You?” She’d been a church secretary for a few years now, if he recalled correctly.

“Oh, you know. Prayer requests and paperwork. You need help with that?” she asked, gesturing to the veggie-strewn cutting board.

He nodded and handed her a knife. They fell into a rhythm, working together, and when Gabe got back the stuffing was in the oven, the potatoes warming with marshmallows—dinner was on the way.

*******

Later that night, after Daphne had departed and Gabe had toddled off to bed, still on Eastern Time, Cas curled up in bed with his laptop, trying to finish _just this one sentence_ before he slept. Which proved futile after about ten minutes, and instead he found himself staring at his phone, willing himself to call Dean.

Because as much as he maybe shouldn’t? He wanted to so badly, and after a week with no contact, his willpower was crumbling.

When his phone chirped suddenly, he figured it was Daphne, letting him know she’d made it home safe.

Instead, it read simply **I miss you.**

And if that wasn’t that sign he was waiting for, nothing was.


	5. Chapter 5

Cas called Dean less than a minute after his text, and he was so surprised by the speed of his response it took him four rings to pick up. “Hi?” he said, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say next.

“Hello, Dean,” came Cas’s gravelly baritone, and if he wasn’t fooling himself, it wavered a little on his name. Then he stopped, too, and the silence of the past week stretched between them. “What—” blurted Cas suddenly, “uh, what are you reading?”

Dean laughed despite himself. “That really what you want to say, Cas? Just called to get a book rec?”

Another pause, and then, “No, no. That’s not what I want to say at all. Sorry, that’s what I need to tell you—Dean, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about Daphne. It was stupid. I was stupid. I should have mentioned, uh, my previous marriage earlier, and I’m really, really sorry.”

Cas’s words came in a rush, words stumbling over each other, and Dean closed his eyes to hear him better, blood rushing to the pit of his stomach and warming his whole body. This was probably a dream; he’d probably dozed off. He’d _had_ this dream—the one where Cas somehow wasn’t angry, where he wasn’t hurt, where it wasn’t Dean’s fault. Where Cas just prostrated himself penitent before him, and Dean forgave him with a kiss.

“Dean?” Cas said, like he was repeating it, and no, this was really happening.

“I’m here, Cas,” he said, sitting further up in bed. “Cas, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t’ve gone off on you like that. I just—I think I panicked.”

“Of course you did! I fucked up worse here. Let me tell you the story, OK? I don’t like telling it, I don’t come off well, but I need to tell you the whole thing, without interruption. I should’ve told you already.”

“OK,” said Dean. “I’m here, Cas. I’m listening.”

*******

Cas found himself wishing there was tequila left—this would be easier with a drink. But then he was already half-drunk on Dean’s voice, on possibility. The fact that Dean hadn’t hung up immediately was intoxicating in itself.

Dean had already told him about the worst thing he’d ever done, and it was time to reciprocate.

“So,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve told you I don’t talk to most of my family, but not really why, and I’ll try not to reel out my whole origin story—most of it’s painfully trite, small-town America bullshit. What you need to know is that my parents were the bad kind of Christian, the worst kind really: don’t spare the rod, women caused the Fall, scientists and queers first into the fire. 

“Daphne’s parents—the Allens—went to our church, and we were the same age, so we always knew each other. When she was eight or so, her father died in a tractor accident, and her mother had to go back to work, so after school she stayed with her aunt Pamela, and thank God for that, because Pamela was the first adult we knew who wasn’t a repressed, narrow-minded Bible-thumper. She slipped us books we weren’t allowed to read at home, which was basically anything not the Bible; she loved sci-fi, and I raided her bookshelves for Bradbury and Pratchett and Butler and LeGuin, and I never went back. Pamela saved us, really—because of her, we learned early that the world was far bigger, and could be less narrow and cruel, than we’d been told.

“By the time Daphne and I were fifteen, my older brother Gabriel had been thrown out of the church for I don’t even remember what, being nice to an atheist or something, and he had this squalid little apartment—so instead of reading space opera and tarot cards at Pamela’s, we’d hang out there after our parents went to bed, drinking cheap beer and watching movies with nudity and playing Dungeons & Dragons. Daphne and I made out occasionally—we were each other's first kiss—but that was never the focus of our relationship. The two of us, three with Gabe, we were this little tribe, this oasis from the rest of our shitty lives.

"I honestly can't recall whose idea it was—it may even have been Gabe's—that Daphne and I get married right out of high school. It was a brilliant plan, though: our parents couldn't possibly object, since we were good Christian kids, from good Christian families, and it was the kind of church where people married off that young, since there was no other way you could have sex without going to Hell. And it would get us away from our parents without having to confront them. It seemed like a stroke of genius.

"So we did it. We got hitched the day after graduation, me in the only blazer I owned and Daphne in a prom dress she borrowed from a girlfriend. We stood up in that vile little church and lied our asses off, and then we were out at last. The two of us got a squalid little two-bedroom with Gabe, and we all found shitty jobs—but once we got off work, we were beholden to no one but ourselves, and it was the life we'd always wanted.

"And yes, Daphne and I had sex a few times. We weren't that attracted to each other, though, we’d known each other too long, so it felt more like practice, figuring out what we were supposed to do before it mattered. Neither of us had thought this through, obviously, what would happen if one of us met someone…but after six months, I did. And it was a guy, which came as a huge surprise to me.”

"You didn't know you were bi?"

"Not really, no. I'd had crushes on fictional characters before, but since I knew I was attracted to women, I brushed it off as being 'mostly straight.' Until Jensen. He worked with me at the Gas 'n' Sip, flirted with me relentlessly—one night it was just the two of us closing, and he kissed me in the supply room. Five minutes later he was sucking my cock, and he was _much_ better at it than Daphne, and by the time I came I was sure I was in love." Cas paused to chuckle mirthlessly. "You remember that first really great blow job. I would’ve followed him anywhere.

“And I did. I left. I cleared out my bank account, I left my share of the rent and utilities on the kitchen counter in cash, and I ran away with him without a word. Without a fucking word, Dean, didn’t call, didn’t write. I left my brother and my best friend who was also my _wife,_ and I didn’t say a goddamn thing.”

“Shit,” said Dean. “Shit.”

“Yes. I know it was half a lifetime ago, and I know I was young—barely nineteen—but that doesn’t change the fact that I did it, and I’ve been trying to redeem myself ever since. To everyone I dated. To myself. To _you._ I did an unforgivable thing. The hell of it is? Ten years later, Daphne forgave me.”

“You hadn’t talked to her all that time?”

“No. When I was twenty, Gabe tracked me down with divorce papers—of course Jensen and I were old news by then, it barely lasted six weeks. But I never talked to Daphne until after my first novel hit it big, and she wrote me a letter through my publisher. The first time I saw her handwriting on an envelope, I was so overwhelmed with guilt I vomited. I didn’t know why she’d ever want to contact me—I broke her heart, I abandoned her—she said, though, that in the cold light of years it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to her. It made her leave town, it made her do something with her life. She went to college. She fell in love and got married, and even though it didn’t last, it gave her something good to replace the past.

“But I still owe her so much, Dean. What I did—she can say she’s over it all she wants, but I’m not. I have to keep paying for it, I have to be—Dean, you asked me once if I was trying to be perfect, and yes, I am, all the time, I’m trying so hard. I have to be perfect for you, Dean, I have to save you, or I’m—I’m no better than I was as an idiot kid, I’m thoughtless and I’m cruel and I don’t want to hurt you, Dean. I’m so in love with you.”

Cas was crying by now, and he didn’t mean to say it—he knew it was too early, he knew it wasn’t fair—but it was said, and he waited with tears running down his face for Dean to respond.


	6. Chapter 6

On the other end of the line, Dean was reeling from the one-two punch: Cas’s burden of guilt, his declaration of love. The latter was the one that made him dizzy, burned through him molten and sweet, and he fell back on the bed with spinning head and tingling skin. But it was the first that was making Cas cry...so that took precedence.

“Hey,” he said, “hey, Cas, don’t cry. Baby, it’s OK. You’ll be all right.”

“No, I won’t. I’m not, I’ve never been all right,” said Cas, voice catching on a sob.

“Hey, it’s OK, baby. Me either. We can be broken together, Cas, we can help each other.”

“I don’t know why you’d want me now that you know. I don’t—I don’t deserve it, don’t you see? I can try to be perfect, but I can’t change the past. I can’t erase the betrayal.”

“Shhhh, no, that’s not it. Cas, baby, yes, you fucked up when you were a kid, you think I didn’t? But it’s not me you hurt, Cas. It’s not mine to forgive, and you already have that from Daphne, it would be pretty damn shitty of me to hold it against you when she doesn’t. It’s OK—it’s cheap advice coming from me, because God knows I can’t do it, but…don’t be so hard on yourself. Eighteen years beating yourself up is more than enough.”

Cas sniffed. “You still want to be with me?” he said, rough voice muted by tears.

“Fuck yes,” said Dean, and took a deep breath. “And hey, the other thing, what you said? I would if I could, Cas, I would say it back, but I can’t. I’m just not good at love and—love; honestly, I’ve never said it, not to anyone. Well, maybe my mom. I guess I don’t believe anyone would really want that from me, so I don’t want to, like, impose? But. To you, I would. If I could. I want to.”

Cas didn’t answer, but the panicked hitch in his breathing began to settle, until Dean couldn’t hear him any more. “Cas?” he asked, timid. He’d been ditched before for not being able to say the words—people always wanted reciprocation, like it was the sounds that made it real and not how he treated them. What if Cas was the same way?

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said finally. “I understand, I think. I know it’s not a wise thing to say so soon—I fall fast, I always have. Obviously. You’re amazing, Dean. I’m so lucky I met you.”

“Likewise,” said Dean. “I think…we need to, not take a step back exactly? But I think it’s good we won’t see each other for a while, so we have to talk instead of fuck. I think since we started there, we missed some of the necessary steps for, uh, for a relationship? If that’s what you want.”

“It is. I know,” said Cas. “It’s hard, though—“

 _“Yeah_ it is,” Dean couldn’t resist saying, and was gratified when Cas laughed.

“Indeed. Dean, I wanted you the moment I saw you, and I thought I was getting to know you, but maybe I was wrong? I don’t think I can actually learn your—your soul through your body, at least not entirely. Not that it hasn’t been fun trying.”

“No shit. You’re pretty much a tiger in the sack. You’re still gonna tie me up sometime, right?” Dean felt his cock stir, moved the hand not holding the phone down to his stomach, stroking lightly through the fabric of his T-shirt.

“Mmmm,” groaned Cas, and Dean was sliding his hand lower when he said, “wait, no, stop, Dean. I don’t think we should do this now. Not—let’s not fall back into the same thing we were doing before. We need to start over, try to get things more solid before we go back to sex.”

Dean let out the breath he was holding. _“Fuck._ You’re right, dammit. We can—let’s just talk for a while? Coming up, I’ll be working all the time till the holidays, but I can call you at night, and you can text me anytime.”

“Yes. I like that plan. When can I see you again? Is the day after Christmas too early?”

“Yeah, it is. Maybe—hey, how about New Year’s? We can meet in the middle, get a room, toast 2014?”

“New start,” Cas agreed. “I want that with you, Dean.”

“Me too, Cas. Me too.”

*******

The halfway mark turned out to be Hannibal, Missouri. Cas sprang for the hotel room New Year's Eve, Dean brought the champagne, schlepped dinner from Oklahoma Joe's for a late dinner. "I think it's still warm," he said as they stepped into the room. "Oh, awesome, a microwave. Lemme zap it, that'll be fine."

"Let me touch you first," said Cas, and Dean held his breath while Cas ran a hand through his hair, slid it down over his cheek to rest there, thumb hovering over his mouth. "Hello, Dean."

Dean grinned. "Hey, Cas. Good to see you." He reached out to stroke the bow of his lips, then broke the moment abruptly. "OK, well! I know ribs aren't quite a date food, but it's the best BBQ in KC. Waited an hour in line."

"Dean, how many times has my tongue been up your ass? I shan't be bothered by a little sauce. Especially if you lick it off your fingers, slowly."

 _"Dude,"_ Dean groaned, staring at the revolving food to keep from tackling him, "you are not making this hands-off thing easier, you know."

They'd talked it over, agreed not to fuck tonight—no orgasms at all, in fact, not even jerking off next to each other—simply because they'd never managed that, and it seemed important. To have this one night of hanging out, enjoying each other’s companionship and not losing themselves immediately in lust. A kiss at midnight, that was all. That was _all,_ Dean repeated to himself. For God's sake, he was nearly thirty-five years old, he could go a night without sex, even with his hot... _boyfriend_ right there, even though he hadn't seen him in weeks and god _damn_ but he wished they were naked, his thighs tight around Cas's waist while he drove into him, digging his nails into Cas's shoulders and leaving deep red half-moons that wouldn't fade by morning...he whimpered under his breath.

But if they were going to do this, the boyfriends thing, the love thing—and they were—there needed to be more to it, and they were trying to get there. Over the past month, they'd talked every night, about everything: Dean would tell Cas about a bookselling triumph ("I don't remember the author or the title, or what it was about, but the cover was definitely blue"), Cas would give his word count for the day, the inadequate meals he’d eaten while he was writing. Talking to Dean again broke Cas’s writer's block, and he packed off the story on deadline—possibly there was a minor character based on Dean, just possibly.

Cas behaved himself over dinner—no cleaning his fingers lasciviously, a minimum of staring at Dean's mouth, and Dean managed to follow suit, despite the truly pornographic thoughts running through his head. They watched some _Twilight Zone_ for a while, holding hands while they reclined against the headboard, swigging the bubbly right out of the bottle; two minutes till 2014, they switched over to pre-recorded Times Square.

"This is so dumb," Dean grumbled. "Like New York's the only place with a clock, and all the other time zones have to follow."

"We can count down ourselves, you know. Here." Cas killed the TV, dug his phone out of his pocket. Setting it to show the seconds, he put it on his knee. "There. A minute twenty till I get to kiss you again."

"That is such a fucking long time."

"I know. We only have to stick to our guns this once."

So they sat silently, watching the time pass. "Ten," said Cas after what seemed like hours. "Nine."

Dean closed the gap on three, unable to wait any longer. He nudged his mouth against Cas’s, gently; Cas made a pleased noise and parted his lips, flicking out the tip of his tongue. Dean’s rose to meet it, and the kiss went from soft to serious in an instant.

Cas moaned, scraping his teeth against Dean’s full lower lip. “God, I missed your mouth,” he whispered.

“Mmmm,” Dean agreed, pressing his tongue in further. Maybe he couldn’t say _I love you_ out loud, but his mouth shaped it now, licking lightly across the roof of Cas’s mouth while he held his face in both hands, one finger stroking the delicate skin at the corner of his eye. Cas’s own hands were clutched tight to Dean’s shoulders, thumbs digging into his collarbone.

Dean pulled away, panting, rested his forehead against Cas’s. “Fuck, that’s good,” he said. “Do you think we could do that some more, keep away from, uh, bathing suit areas, or should we quit while we’re ahead?”

“I believe in us,” Cas said with a smile. “We’re grown men, we can deal with a couple of neglected boners.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” groaned Dean, and kissed him again.

A good half-hour later, Cas confessed he couldn’t keep his eyes open; Dean resisted the urge to help him take off his pants, tending to his own instead, then laid on his side, folding Cas into him on the bed, knees nestled together. He tucked his nose into the nape of Cas’s neck and sighed. “Missed this too.”

Cas’s hand found a hip and squeezed. “Love you, Dean,” he said quietly.

“Right back atcha,” Dean murmured, and Cas tightened his grip again, briefly, before he drifted into sleep.


End file.
